


Gourd Omens

by Foodfightonthemoon



Series: Crowley and Aziraphale's Village Adventures [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comedy, Crack, F/F, M/M, Mild Peril, Parody, Pumpkins, Vegetables, and the 4th, country life, general cruelty to squashes, graphic violence against vegitables, subtle suggestion of the struggles of being an lgbt vicar, theres a gun in the third chapter, very angry village people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-23 00:36:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20001085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foodfightonthemoon/pseuds/Foodfightonthemoon
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley move into their new cottage in South Downs after Armageddidn’t blows over. But of course hellish interference is never far away, and it looks like its target is the local flower show. Can the pair prevent Asparageddon, befriend their neighbours, grow the largest vegetables and win the cup for division B?





	1. Two Knocks in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration for chapter 1:  
> https://foodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/186585501032/ever-wondered-how-an-angel-and-a-demon-might

_The Present Day, 6 days until Asparageddon_

The first knock came at 9.00 pm. It was created by a frail but suitably disgruntled fist as it banged at the vicarage door. Mrs Savage had only managed one knock before it opened and an equally disgruntled face appeared behind it. Several small peas rolled down the front steps.

‘Vicar! I am so glad you are still up, I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you -’ the visitor began before briefly glancing down ‘- did you know there are peas on the floor?’

The vicar rubbed her eyes behind her glasses ‘Yes I’m afraid Mike’s taken to being quite violent with his food. Mrs Savage, is there any possibility this could wait until morning, perhaps after the service? I do have some last sermon points to write up.’

‘It’s is a case of an actual attack on the fabric of this community,’

Not another one - thought the vicar.

‘I am speaking of _occultish witchcraft._ Vicar, I believe that someone - _something_ \- that pretends to be a man but is in fact _inhuman_ among us lives...’ and she lowered her voice to a whisper ‘... _a demon’._

‘Oh goodness’ the Reverend Rachel Acres was famous at theology college for her the not-very-subtle sarcasm in the face of some of the more out-there literal readings of scripture. And this is the tone she adopted when she asked: ‘And what oh what might this demon be seeking to do in our peaceful village of North Mundham’

Mrs Savage leaned forward conspiratorially ‘ _To ruin the Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show’ _

There came a whooping cackle from the other room. The vicar stuck her head into the living room doorway behind her and hissed at her wife to be quiet. It was, alas, too late. She turned to see Mrs Savage shaking with more indignation than she had arrived with. 

‘I would have thought someone with learning such as yourself, Vicar, would see the evil right under your nose!’ Mrs Savage began ranting while the cackling quietly continued from the other room. ‘But _I_ see! Oh yes! I see _everything_ ! That demon next door, casting his spells! You should see them - how his courgettes shake as if possessed in the middle of the night when he comes out and speaks to them. Only witchcraft could make them as grousemly large as they are! I knew something was wrong the moment those two moved into that house. Now! Ah! I can see what you’re thinking vicar and I’m no homophobic! As you know I have been nothing but supportive of _you_ as our _vicar-_ ’ (this was half true, as she had not initially been) ‘- but there is something _more than strange_ about those two. And I don’t know WHY they want to ruin our beloved flower show, but have no doubt, I am going to find out, Vicar!’

‘Could it be,’ said the vicar after a pause ‘potentially that you are….’ she stopped and thought carefully about the wisdom of utterring her next few words.

‘That I am what’ Mrs Savage folded her wrinkled wiry arms menacingly. The vicar did not finish her sentence.

‘That you’re jealous of the size of Anthony’s courgettes!’ came the voice from the other room - which began laughing at full volume once more. The voice did not get a chance to see the effect of it’s words, but the vicar did. Such quivering indignation the likes of which she had never seen - even in all of her years being a vicar in rural english villages.

  


*****

The second knock came almost a quarter of an hour later, two thirds of a mile east of the vicarage. The hand that knocked was a lot more timid, and barely tapped the door of East Gate Cottage. It did not tap again. It waited. 

There was eventually sound behind the door. Steps and then a shushing noise. The latch turned slowly and the door opened barely a slither. Just a thin line of face, a flash of dark red hair, and the gleam of dark glasses were visible through the door and frame. It froze as it took in the image of it’s guest.

‘Oh _dear_ ,’ the voice eventually hissed from behind the door ‘you’ve made a mistake showing up here.’

The visitor was a small, quivering, darkly dressed, fake-eyelashed man. If he was a man, of course, which he was not. He was a demon.

A big problem in hell was remembering names. In general - hell was not a place you’d even ask or care about someone else’s name - especially if they weren’t particularly important. Unfortunately when the situation came about that someone actually _needed_ to use a name to refer to someone else they’d seen hanging about for 6000 years or so - it was too late to ask. 

‘D-demon C-C-Crowley?’ the visitor stuttered

This whole situation was made so much more embarrassing when only _one_ party knew the other’s name.

‘...heard of the guy, yeah.’ Said the demon Crowley ‘Heard he keeps a bottle of holy water by the door… for unwanted guestsss…’

The nameless demon visibly shuddered and stepped back

‘I’m no harm, I promise, I shouldn’t even be here. They don’t know I’m out. They don’t know I’m talking to you - I’ve come to give you a warning.’

Crowley opened the door wider, now the new arrival was at a safer distance. He wore a dark red quilted dressing gown with black trim, and slippers. The visiting demon - who had actually appropriated much of his own style from Crowley himself, momentarily let down his guard.

‘Great robe!’ he exclaimed

From behind the door, out of sight, came a satisfied ‘ah!’ and a clap. Crowley snapped his face towards the sound and slammed the door shut. There was the murmuring and rustling of a small argument, and the door opened once more.

‘...thanks. So,’ he said ‘a warning?’

‘Yeah so’ began the demon ‘I don’t exactly know what it means. I’ve, um, seen bits of paperwork but they don’t really make sense but maybe, well I was hoping, hey, this might make sense to you, so -’

‘What’s it say?’

‘Um, well.’ he took out a scrap of paper from his back pocket and read it out loud ‘Neave cup, hag’s cucurbita, use dewalt.’

‘... ok.’ He looked at the demon with expectation, and the demon looked back at him with a mirrored expression. ‘Did it, uh, say anything else?’

‘Oh, yes, but I didn’t have time I only managed to copy down that bit, I knew it was a code I thought you would know what it meant. It’s about here - this village. _Your_ village, where we’ve been told we are under no circumstances allowed without special permission’

‘And you came anyway, did you?’ Crowley reached out and took the scrap of paper ‘Why?’

‘Please _please, don’t tell them I warned you._ ’ pleaded the demon, as he backed off warily into the darkness and started to run.

‘But wait a sec wh-’ but the demon was gone. ‘Fine.’ Crowley said. He couldn’t grass the guy even if he wanted to - he was not exactly on speaking terms with the dark council. That, and he still didn’t know the demon’s bloody name.

‘Well! A secret rebel messenger from hell - with taste!’ exclaimed the angel in the corridor as the door swung shut. He was too was wearing a quilted dressing gown - but in cream. Crowley handed over the scrap of paper.

‘What do you make of that then?’

Aziraphale took his glasses out of the robe pocket and scrutinised the note with a little too much glee than was required for the situation.

‘It’s like old times, deciphering the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter! Oh how exciting, I do wonder what it means.’

‘It won’t mean anything good, angel. This is still the forces of hell we’re talking about’ Crowley continued to squint out the window for any further signs of demonic activity (other than his own, of course).

The message was hastily scrawled on a ripped piece of greasy office printer paper. Just as the demon had said, it read:

**Neave cup, hag’s cucurbita, use dewalt.**

‘Ah, yes well, naturally. But let's see here, the message is simple enough - if only we knew what any of the words meant. Dewalt - perhaps it’s a name? Neave _is_ a name I believe and certainly rings a bell but I will have to look up what a cucurbita is - it sounds rather latin’

‘Pumpkin’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘Wh-NO not _you!_ A cucurbita pepo means pumpkins, sort of! Butternut squashy-gourd things!’

‘Ahh!’ exclaimed the angel as he looked again at the riddle. His face fell ‘Oh dear. Oh Crowley… you don’t think…’

‘Occasionally I do, thank you’

‘...Crowley, the Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show is in two weeks’

‘...and?’

‘And, as it seems hell is out to sabotage it, I rather think you need to win it.’

  



	2. Fete and Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year previously, Crowley and Aziraphale attend the Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration here:  
> https://foodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/186625278002/gourd-omens-chapter-two-is-up-crowley-and

_One year previously. 371 days until Asparageddon_

‘But the POINT of the little taps at the side of the beach was to remove the sand and I _used_ those’ The angel pouted.

‘Yes! You did! You did for about ten whole minutes before immediately putting your feet back onto the sandy ground and then getting in the car with all your sand, which is now -’ the demon gestured to the angel’s bare feet, then the car floor, then the car door, then the dashboard, then the ceiling ‘- _everywhere’_

Crowley and Aziraphale were on the way back from the beach, where they had spent a sunny Saturday morning. They had left shortly after the incoming tide had swept away the angel’s sandcastle.

‘Well then,’ Aziraphale had begun to see he was in the wrong and decided he did not want to be ‘why are you so annoyed about it when you can easily just use your demonic cleaning abilities on it later - it’s hardly an issue!’

Crowley’s lip curled ‘The _point_ ’ he sighed as he tried to find a good point ‘is that at some point, angel, you’re going to be at someone’s house, or in some poor human’s car - and you’re going to _forget_ that normal people can’t do that. Also it’s disrespectful!’

‘ _Disrespectful?’_

‘Yesss’ the demon hissed

‘To _whom_ ?’ Aziraphale watched Crowley scoff and wave a hand about. ‘To the _car?’_

‘ _Yes_ \- to the car!’ he sped past into the village as Aziraphale looked out the window at the fields flashing by. Crowley rolled his eyes when he saw the amount of sand stuck to the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder, as he knew that there would be so much more lodged in the angel’s ridiculous 1920’s one piece swimming costume.

Aziraphale suddenly gasped and clutched his chest like he couldn’t breath.

‘What!’ said Crowley, his tone switched immediately to concern ‘Angel, what is it, are you ok?’

‘We nearly missed it!’ Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and shining

‘Missed what?’ Crowley lowered his glasses and squinted into the rearview mirror

‘The Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show!’

They continued through the village in silence. Aziraphale’s face was still shining with expectation, Crowley’s was clouded with confusion. He had barely gathered his brain cells to begin his ridiculing exclamation - 

‘ _The Mundham & District Gala and Ffff- _ANGEL!’ - when Aziraphale, with his tongue out and a joyfully determined expression, grabbed the steering wheel and turned suddenly into the North Mundham playing fields.

They screeched to a halt in front of a middle aged man with a fishing hat and clipboard.

‘Very sorry sirs’ the man sighed as Aziraphale leant over Crowley to roll down the window ‘you’re way too late for registration and it wouldn’t be fair. But oh, it is a shame…’ the man glanced up and down the dark pristine Bentley ‘...oh I’m sure there can be no harm in parking up by the contestants at least. Follow the trail up to the left and park on the end of the line there, please drive slowly if you don’t mind as the gala has already started and Doris is already about, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’ he laughed and waved them on.

Crowley was still in shock as they rolled slowly down the path past white marquees and face-painted children. He pulled up beside a line of vintage cars and turned off the engine.

‘Listen, Angel’ his voice was slow and morose ‘I know that I may not exactly appear to be the safest driver. But I assure you, I am always in control. I drive fast but I time it exactly to when people aren’t there. Really, I do. You can’t just grab the wheel and turn like that - for a _flower show_. We were going way to fast, it’s a miracle we didn’t crash into the wall.’

‘Yes indeed’ Aziraphale said distractedly has he brushed the sand off his lap.

‘Right, well, that aside - the thing is, angel, that if we did happen to get discorporated, or if one of us got killed... again...’ he stopped, his face pleading ‘...I don’t know… how we would get back.’

Aziraphale put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He was now miraculously dressed in a white linen shirt and chinos. 

‘I know Crowley. Let’s both be careful’

And he leapt out of the car before Crowley could even utter the word ‘ _Chinos?!_ ’

******

Doris Savage whipped around the stalls in a frenzy. She was nothing if not efficient - even if her methods involved total and incessant micro managerial control. She was not being paid and no one knew what her role was anyway, only that she was in charge of the order of things and it always had been so and it was best not to question it. The only respite the stall helpers got is if Doris were to somehow catch some news of the new vicar. After Reverend Gates had left, Mrs Savage had been beside herself. Not only to lose such a true and godly vicar - but also that the years of sway she had garnered with him were suddenly for naught. One may be wondering what sort of political ally a village vicar could possibly be. The thing is that they tended to have the one thing she herself did not have: respect and popularity from the local village folk.

‘Ah yes that’s the new Rev over there with her wife and son.’ Maggie behind the bric a brac stall nudged Jean from the homemade cards table and pointed towards the tent exit ‘I think he’s adopted, and from what I hear she’s a very modern sort of vicar’

‘Well you would be!’ said Jean

Doris Savage stopped mid-managing and whipped her head in the direction of the marquee door. She concluded a suddenly hurried rant about the jam and condiment arrangements and hastened as fast as was dignified towards the exit.

Through the gap she could see two women, a tall one with short hair and a bemused expression, and a shorter one with a friendly smile, glasses, and a dog collar. Behind them trailed a boy with floppy black hair and a long stalk of sticky buds - which he was attempting to stick on the back of the taller woman.

Surely this could not be the new vicar and his, _her,_ family?

Before she could step out through the threshold, there appeared the face of an angel. Obviously she wouldn’t have known it. The more astute angel spotter may have noticed a slight celestial gleam behind his blue eyes and good and honest face - but even they would probably have been distracted by the glittery butterfly painted on his cheek.

‘Hello,’ he said

‘What is it?’ Snapped Mrs Savage, who was attempting to crane her head round the door frame at the family that had just gone into the competition tent next door. Unperturbed, the angel took her hand and shook it enthusiastically.

‘Mrs Savage, is it, gala coordinator? My name is Aziraphale, me and my companion Cccrr...Anthony have just moved into the village and we are very excited to be here. It is very lovely indeed! I tell you I haven’t been to a fete like this since nineteen foooooouuu - a long time ago. I was wondering if you might happen to know whether there might be a human fruit machine stall. Quite a novel idea and probably a bit old fashioned I’ll admit, but -’

‘Angel!’ the demon Crowley hunched into the room carrying 3 tote bags full of books, second hand dvds, sweets, cakes and bread. He dropped them all on the floor and put his hands on his hips.

Jean leaned over to Maggie. ‘More of them now, eh!’ she whispered

‘Why are we here, I don’t get it. We could be at home, don’t you want to go home?’ Crowley held out his hands in exasperation. Doris was about to bypass these strange men when the lanky one in the glasses nodded in her direction ‘Sup neighbour.’

‘ _Neighbour?’_ exclaimed Aziraphale

‘Yeah she lives in the cottage next door - we met her husband when we moved in. Remember?’ He didn’t. ‘You gave him some tea and he said he didn’t like that author you like so you stopped listening to him when he started talking about himself and his fam-’

‘Alright Crowley that’s quite enough.’ The angel picked up the tote bags, brushed them off and strung them on his own shoulders ‘And I was listening, I just forgot.’ He composed himself once more and smiled at Doris ‘It is wonderful to meet you and may this be the first of many lovely neighbourly conversations’

‘Fine’ she said. 

From outside a megaphone amplified voice announced that it was time for the flower show winner’s presentation. Mrs Savage nodded to her two new neighbours - of whom she would normally be laboriously scrutinising if it weren't for the arrival of the new vicar AND the imminent announcement that she had once again won the much coveted Mark Neave Challenge cup - and made a beeline for the competition tent.

*****

As Crowley shoved five local-goods filled tote bags into the back seat, he noticed a piece of card on the front of his windscreen tucked behind the wipers. 

It read: 1933 Bentley. Too late for entry, but very splendid

‘ _See,_ angel’ He waved the card in Aziraphale’s direction ‘ _respect’_

He tossed the slip of paper over his shoulder onto the grass behind him and got into the car. Aziraphale sighed as he slumped into the car and looked wistfully out the window.

‘Weren’t they lovely, what wonderful flowers.’ 

‘Yeah they were _ok_ ’

‘Ah and the vegetables! Huge great things - and those fruits looked delicious.’

‘I saw several with spots’

‘Aren’t humans clever in how they’ve cultivated the land to grow vegetables that big. Mrs Savage truly was a worthy winner of that _beautiful_ trophy.’ he was thoughtful for a second ‘I’ve never won a trophy…’

The car was silent as it drove out of the gate - waved off by the man with a clipboard and several appreciative nods from the other vintage car owners.

‘Maybe,’ Aziraphale suddenly had a brilliant idea ‘you could get to know our neighbours better. Gardening is a thing you enjoy; what a fantastic common interest! Perhaps she could give you some good tips?’

Crowley’s face was an image of indignation 

‘TIPS?!’ He scoffed ‘I should give _her_ some tips! You wouldn’t know a perfect vegetable if it whacked you in the face, angel!’ he huffed and sped through the village of North Mundham at an alarming speed. Within a minute they were back at the cottage.

Aziraphale opened the door on his side but before he got out Crowley whipped off his glasses, turned to him, and said ‘You watch angel - I’m going to get you that damn trophy.’ 


	3. The Garden of East Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley adjust to country living and face the combined challenges of annoying neighbours and outdoor gardening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration here   
> https://foodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/186682441797/aziraphale-and-crowley-adjust-to-country-living

_ 2 days until Asparageddon _

‘One exhibit per class’ Crowley squinted over his glasses at the dog eared printed sheets in his hand ‘and awarded for highest number of points in this division, class B, vegetables is -’ He lowered the paper and solemnly muttered to himself ‘- The Mark Neave Cup.’

He was alone in the garden, an apron tied over his black blazer. His sleeves were rolled up and his tartan gardening gloves were covered in mud. Aziraphale had gotten them for him from the garden center - he had said they were the only ones left.

The garden consisted of a small flower-surrounded patio by the conservatory, next to a short stretch of what appeared to be jungle, which hid from view a large plot of what had become a torturous prison for very large, very terrified, vegetables.

The trouble with outdoor gardening, in comparison to indoor gardening, is that the grass is always greener on the other side. This is a metaphor, as the grass was most certainly greener on Crowley’s side of the fence. But that was  _ only _ because the grass was too short to see over it. Had it been able to, it would have seen plants, grasses and shrubs which, although not as verdant and green, did not fear for their lives every time the gardener stepped into view. Other plants, however,  _ could  _ see over the fence into Mrs Savage’s garden and  _ had  _ witnessed the possibility of life under a different regime. This lead to an interesting development that was both unexpected and hitherto unheard of in the gardening world: some of the plants had begun to rebel.

The cucumbers had refused to flower, the potatoes had dug themselves so deep into the ground it would take a digger to retrieve them, and the asparagus had taken one look around and decided to not bother with being a plant at all. It was now doing a very good impression of a slug. And as for the beans, well...

The steps Crowley took across the track were intentional and ominous. He did not look up when he stopped in front of a clump long stalks by the back fence 

‘I have given you one week. Time is up. And yet I see -’ his eyes flashed as he casually moved aside a leaf with two fingers ‘- not even an attempt’. 

The beanstalks did not respond.

‘Did I not make myself  _ CLEAR’ _

Interestingly, the beanstalks were not shaking, as if they had resigned itself to their fate. The rest of the garden was quivering by this point. The beanstalks were certainly long, healthy, and it was reasonable to assume that they  _ should  _ have produced a number of pods by now. Crowley snarled and tugged on one threateningly. It resisted. The shoot had grown over the fence and seemed to be trapped or weighed down by something on the other side of it. He tugged again. Something hit the soft ground out of his sight.

Several thousand years previously, Jochebed, mother of Moses and inadvertent inventor of skinny dipping, sent her baby into the unknown in the hopes of saving it. From her point of view, her current situation was so dire that any other would probably be better than it - even a risky unknown one.

In a similar way, the brave headstrong runner beans of East Gate Cottage had decided that it would let no pod fall on the soil of Crowley’s garden - lest its children endure the hardship for another generation. For this reason it had grown over the wooden barrier, and only when out of sight of the demon, produced some of the largest, most delicious and most numerous bean pods ever seen in the whole of West Sussex.

Crowley discovered this as he sat atop the fence. He tried to swell a rage inside him, but accidentally ended up feeling a new respect for the plant. He kicked the fence underneath him with the back of his foot in frustration.

‘I HATE OUTDOOR GARDENING!’ he yelled. 

‘What’s the matter dear?’ came Aziraphale’s voice from the other side of the small jungle.

Crowley grunted, jumped off the fence and sauntered glumly towards the patio. There he found Aziraphale sitting at a white metal garden table and doing the crossword on this week’s paper next to a fruity liquid filled pitcher and two glasses.

‘Pimms?’ he offered, pouring the demon a glass. Crowley downed it and chomped the fruit angrily. ‘Oh dear,’ said the angel ‘are the plants being naughty again?’

‘Mmmootiny’ he said through a mouthful of strawberry.

‘Well, I do think you are a little harsh on them, actually.’ Crowley looked surprised and a little worried at this. He had always hidden his harsher gardening methods from the angel - which is why he had planted such a thicket between the patio and the vegetable garden. ‘One time,’ continued Aziraphale ‘I saw you call this one a wart’ he accusingly raised his eyebrows and pointed at some yellow flowers in the nearest bed.

‘Oh, no that’s  _ sneezewort _ ’ 

‘Listen, you may not know this, but I read somewhere that  _ talking  _ to your plants might help them to  _ grow _ . So I do actually think you should be rather more positive to them.’

_ ‘Sneezewort  _ is the  _ name _ of the flower, angel’

‘Oh... I see. But you called that purple one a scab the other day too’

_ ‘Scabius’ _

‘And you called that one a dick’

‘It knows what it did’ the demon shrugged.

_ ‘Ahem’ _ came a cough from above them. They both turned to see the strained, sunburnt, but gleeful face of Mrs Savage over the fence. She was clearly standing on a step ladder. They had only spoken about it briefly before, but Crowley had confidently suggested to the angel that the ‘hag’ in the demon’s cryptic note was most certainly their neighbour, Doris Savage. Much to Crowley’s chagrin - her cucurbitaceae had been doing very well indeed.

‘ _ Hate  _ to interrupt, but did you know that you have  _ powdery mildew  _ on your squashes?

Crowley leapt up and shook his head in disbelief.

‘But I  _ mulched’ _ and he strode through the garden to the vegetable patch. Mrs Savage watched him go with a strange smile on her face.

‘How was Majorca?’ asked Aziraphale

‘Too many foreigners’

‘Ah I see’

‘The other night I saw a strange man on our road.’ Mrs Savage unsuccessfully tried to feign an innocent tone ‘He had such a strange hairstyle, almost like  _ horns _ , running down the street like nobody's business.’

‘Oh, you don’t say?’ said Aziraphale carefully. Crowley strode by them into the house.

‘He  _ seemed -’ _ Mrs Savage looked into the distance like she was thinking spontaneously, rather than reciting an accusation she had been practicing earlier in the mirror ‘- as if he was coming from  _ your _ house.’

‘How strange, and around what time was this, Mrs Savage?’ Aziraphale put down his newspaper and neatly folded his hands across his lap. Crowley crossed over from the house back to the vegetable garden holding a shotgun.

‘Around 9:15 I believe’

‘Goodness me, and what were you doing out on the street so late, dare I ask?’

Mrs Savage grimaced ‘I was just visiting a friend for some advice’

‘How lovely - of what nature? Perhaps I can also be of service?’

‘Dark matters, Mr Fell, dark matters indeed’

BANG!

The sound of a gunshot blasted through the neighborhood from the garden and shocked Mrs Savage off her step ladder and the angel off his chair - knocking over the pitcher of pimms. 

Crowley strode back towards the house with a smoking gun. Aziraphel had picked himself up off the floor by the time the demon had reached the door.

‘ _ Crowley!’  _ he exclaimed, ‘What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?!’

Mrs Savage had scrambled back onto the ladder and was peeping over the top of the small jungle.

‘He  _ shot a marrow!’  _ She gasped as if she had witnessed a murder. The angel was speechless for a good few seconds. 

‘YOU SHOT A  _ MARROW _ ?!’ he repeated Mrs Savage’s words ‘ _ WHY?? _ ’

The demon shrugged 

‘Gardening’ he said, and went into the house.

*******

‘But why do you even have a gun?’ the angel was sitting with his head in his hands, perched on his favourite armchair by the window. The demon was sprawled across the settee.

‘Look, I’m sorry, that’s what the punishment for powdery mildew is - I’ve made this clear since the beginning. It’s called gardening angel, it’s how you make a  _ perfect _ garden.’

‘By shooting sick plants?’

‘Disobedient ones’

‘With a  _ gun’ _

‘Only in the case of powdery mildew’

‘Surely you still can eat the plants! Or perhaps  _ treat  _ the plants,  _ help  _ them, make them better?’

The demon froze. His lip curled.

‘That’s not how things work, angel. Not for me. Not for you. Not for marrows. I thought you were all about deciphering clues, ‘putting to a stop the heinous plans of the  _ enemy _ ’ and winning this damn competition.’

Aziraphale hands slumped to his lap as he stared at his oldest friend.

‘I- I just don’t understand why you’re acting like this. Yes, it’s important to thwart the potential plans of hell in our village, Crowley, but a  _ gun? _ Plant based violence? I thought you were better than this!’

‘Oh well that  _ is  _ rich’ said Crowley, suddenly furious ‘coming from the angel who would have shot an  _ innocent child’ _

Aziraphale gasped 

‘The _ANTICHRIST._ And that was only because YOU told me to!’

‘Yeah and  _ you  _ listened. And let’s look who’s  _ damned _ and who  _ isn’t  _ eh? Oh yes, _ still me.’ _

_ ‘Damned’ _

_ ‘Yes,  _ eternal damnation and punishment and cast out from your prim, holy institution’

Aziraphale stood up and collected himself.

‘Well,’ he said, suddenly quiet ‘I am so sorry that this beautiful house, and lovely village and life you have now is  _ such  _ an eternal punishment for you’

Aziraphale strode to the front door, picked up his satchel and opened the latch.

‘Oh,  _ come on _ . You know that’s not what I mean,  _ angel!’ _ Crowley called as Aziraphale stepped outside and swung the door behind him. Crowley caught it before it could slam.

‘Aziraphale, look, I’m  _ sorry.  _ Hey, I’m like this, I’m a  _ demon!’ _

The angel was halfway across the drive and striding into the cul de sac.

‘What you are is  _ ridiculous _ ’ he shouted as he strode out of sight, hands shaking and not looking back. Crowley groaned and leaned against the doorframe.

‘ _ I knew it!’  _ hissed a voice from next doors front garden

‘Oh  _ shove it, Savage!’  _ and the door to East Gate Cottage slammed shut.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Mulch Ado About Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boys spend some time apart, and start to find out that they are not the only ones who are struggling with summer fete insanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration here: https://foodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/186740215697/chapter-4-is-up-here

_ 1 and a bit days until Asparageddon _

The vicarage front door opened and Reverend Acres sighed all the way from the hallway to the kitchen. Helen was already putting the kettle on in anticipation. Rachel slumped down on a kitchen chair.

‘The village has gone mad’ the vicar stared at the ceiling in exasperation ‘I’ve just got back from the pastoring the Baileys through a domestic argument about carrots. You would be surprised Helen, they are incredibly dangerous vegetables and should not be handled by minors.’ She gratefully took the tea Helen had poured for her and after a rejuvenating gulp said ‘I’ve been thinking, I don’t think you and Mike should enter that ruddy flower show after all. It’s not worth it, for the sake of diplomacy. I am sorry though, the rhubarb was looking amazing.’

‘No worries, we can’t enter anyway - Mike’s ripped up the entire crop and thrown it into the stream by the Rogers house’ Helen shrugged. Rachel sat up and looked at her wife’s face to see if she was joking. She was not. 

‘What has gotten into that child?’ she said eventually ‘Into  _ everyone!’ _

‘Aziraphale will be staying with us tonight in the living room.’ Helen announced. 

‘Aziraphale? Oh lawks, did something happen?’

‘Yup! Anthony shot a marrow - with a  _ shotgun. _ ’ 

Again, Helen was not joking. Rachel went to go and see their guest in the living room. Reverend Acres had always gotten on very well with Aziraphale Fell. She found his theology both entirely fundamentalist and occasionally very fanciful, and he always spoke on matters of scripture with authority as if he were  _ there  _ (which Rachel found very frustrating) but that aside they both could mutually appreciate the fact that the other was simply  _ good.  _ They both shared a wonderful and rare trait: they loved people in general and wanted the best for them.

She found her friend sitting in her favourite armchair by the bookcase - which he was scanning up and down for more books to add to the little pile he had made on the coffee table.

‘You can borrow these if you like’ said Rachel, sitting on the wooden chair next to his.

‘Oh! Thank you’ he smiled ‘and thank you for letting me stay, it’s very kind of you indeed’

‘Anytime Mr Fell’ and she went away to get him some blankets.

  
  


*****

Friday dawned on North Mundham. Splattered across the back fence of East Gate Cottage garden were the dripping seedy sinews of a whole season’s hard work. Lined up against the west fence were trembling squashes, marrows, pumpkins, courgettes and onions. In the middle of the garden, plopped onto a pulpstained stool, sat the next gourd in line for execution.

Crowley sat on a backwards kitchen chair, shotgun leant on his thigh and cigarette in mouth.

‘You too eh. Another one eh. All of you eh. You see you all got it allllll wrong’

He was also very drunk by this point.

‘Maybe you thought, oho he cannot punish us  _ all.  _ If we  _ all  _ get powdery mildew maybe he’ll just  _ not’ _ he stubbed out the cigarette and leered at the vegetable. It was an ornamental squash - its was very nicely formed and would have looked lovely on the mantelpiece, were it not for a white powdery substance smothered across its leaves and body.

‘I am a fair being, and in my garden my word is law and I intend to carry the law out. Do not think for  _ one moment _ I make  _ any exceptions’ _

It was clear at that point that every single vegetable had the fungus spread to them. He had a few ideas about how this might have happened (most of them involving the hag next door) but still - a law was a law. 

He shot every vegetable in the garden.

*****

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had had a far less shooty - though just as pointless - night. He started off the skimming his way through the news, reread a novel or two, had a chuckle over a book by Richard Dawkins, became unexpectedly engrossed in a young master Acres’ collection of Beano annuals, and finally - once the sun began to rise on North Mundham vicarage - decided now would probably be a good time to try once again to decipher the code the rebel demon left earlier in the week. 

**Neave cup, hag’s cucurbita, use dewalt.**

By this time he knew the Neave cup was referring of course to the Mark Neave cup, the prize for the most points in the class B division of the Gala and Flower show. The cucurbita, as Crowley had known from the beginning, was clearly relating to a gourd of some kind. And the hag, as Crowley had also previously suggested (although Aziraphale refused to agree with him out loud) - may well be relating to their neighbour, Doris Savage. Hell, the angel knew from experience, tended to be quite rude about humans. Even so, the angel supposed Doris was the one - out of everyone he knew in the village - they were probably talking about.

Reverend Acres had appeared around 7:30am with tea and crumpets and sat with her guest while Helen chased Mike around the house getting him ready for school. Mike had somehow managed to get dark grease all over his school shirt and the drama was intense.

‘I’m afraid I can’t stay very long with you this morning, there are some preparations I have to oversee for the gala tomorrow’

‘Not a problem’ replied Aziraphale cheerily, despite his disappointment that his nights reading had not brought him any more clues - and his worry about having to face Crowley in his current state.  ‘Do you know,’ asked Aziraphale as the reverend flicked through her bills and letters ‘by any chance, I wonder, what the word ‘Dewalt’ might mean?’

‘Uh well the first thing I think of is Damien Walt, you might have seen him - he ran the parking last year at the gala. I was round his the other day because he wanted me to bless his squashes for the competition’ she chuckled. Her mirth turned to worry as she said ‘the whole village has really gotten into this competition in a big way like I’ve never seen any village do before. Some people have become really very eccentric about it. Mrs Carter, for example, put all of Mr Garrison’s swedes and celeriac in a boat and sank it at Chichester Marina. Lots of people are coming to me for insight on what might be happening to their loved ones but I’m afraid I just don’t know.’

‘ _ Mr D.Walt  _ you say.’ Aziraphale was keen not to talk about exactly how eccentric  _ his  _ loved one had become in this village fete nightmare, but desperately wanted to solve this puzzle. ‘And he’s entering the class B division of the Gala is he?’

‘Yes, I believe so’ Acres frowned suspiciously ‘Why?’

‘And tell me,’ The angel’s eyes widened as he sat forward - could this be the final puzzle piece? ‘What is his relationship with Mrs Savage?’

The reverend sighed ‘Oh well to be honest it is a work in progress. There have been times when it’s got quite heated in village meetings. But Mr Walt is a very reasonable chap and only really causes a bit of a fuss if he really needs to. He’s a popular guy too, I guess if he ever really kicked off a lot of people would be on his side and so Mrs Savage tends to tread a bit more carefully around him. Ah God bring peace on this crazy village please’

‘Amen’

‘And all this craziness should come to an end tomorrow’ she laughed ‘if we survive till then that is!’

‘What have you heard?’ The angel asked.

‘Um, I was joking.’ Replied the vicar.

‘Oh I see.’

*********

The local police had had a flurry of reports about the sounds of gunshots coming from a cul de sac on the edge of North Mundham all morning. They sent two patrol cars to investigate only to find an empty garden, a few holes in a fence, and a raving Mrs Savage. The inhabitants of East Gate Cottage didn’t seem to be in and the police officers on duty did not want to be there either (Mrs Savage already had a bit of a reputation with them when it came to complaining about neighbours and wasting police time.) However, Constable Whiddet said he could smell gunpowder, so they posted a leaflet about firework safety through the door, as well as a written warning about using them so early in the morning, and went away.

They hit Crowley on the face as he lay on the floor in the hallway. He did not wake up. The door swung open and hit him on the head. He did wake up.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale exclaimed over the swearing demon writhing on the doormat ‘I have to speak with you! I think I know what’s actually going on. Listen, about earlier, I am sorry for storming out - I became quite overwhelmed. The thing is I think that there is a chance that you - the whole village in fact has been-'

‘Not a punishment!’ The demon finally let out some intelligible, non-swear words, still clutching his bashed head.

‘Pardon?’

‘Not a punishment, I like it here. I like the village, I like the garden, I like the sea, I like the house and I like living with you. That is to say, it’s good, not a punishment. The opposite in fact - what do you call them, not miracles sort of like miracles - good things. Presents.’

The angel blushed 

‘A... blessing?’ He said

‘Yeah! Blessing! You are… don’t deserve it… very lucky… sorry about the garden.’

‘Oh’ the angel nealt down on the hallway floor with a coy smile ‘I also count myself as rather blessed indeed. We seem to have landed on our feet after the whole drama a few years ago. I hope you know that I would not want to be anywhere else.’

At this the demon went tomato red.

‘What’s happening! Village! What did you figure out!’ He barked. The angel clicked his fingers as he remembered what he was going to say.

‘Yes! The village! I have a theory! You see, I’ve been talking to the vicar and it seems that the whole village has some sort of strange fascination with winning the Mark Neave Cup this year’

‘Neave’s cup, from the message’

‘Exactly! And if you remember, even you and I last year were particularly enamoured by the cup itself’

‘You were, I remember, it was weird’

‘Very weird indeed, as I do not normally go in for competitions or trophies or anything like that. It was almost like there had been some sort of  _ temptation  _ going on - attached to that object.’

‘Why would hell set out to tempt everyone to try and win a trophy?’

‘Aha!’ Aziraphale pointed a triumphant finger ‘To create social discord in the community!’ Crowley did not seem convinced. The angel continued to look pleased with himself despite the demon’s silence.

‘Or maybe they electrified the cup?’ Crowley offered helpfully.

‘No no, it has to do with Mrs Savage’s pumpkins, or  _ cucurbita _ . They are going to win this year and I believe Mr Damien Walt,  _ Dewalt  _ as the message goes, will start an altercation which will end in violence and the disintegration of an entire community.’

‘It sounds a little tenuous. You’re saying this Walt guy would really physically fight Doris Savage next door?’

‘Mrs Carter sank a boat full of swedes’ the angel looked triumphant ‘ and _ you  _ shot a marrow. The tricks hell are playing could lead  _ anyone  _ to do  _ anything’ _

‘Oh, um, angel, I shot all the marrows’

‘Come again?’

‘And the squashes and pumpkins and courgettes.’

The angel looked suddenly defeated.

‘Well then how are we going to win the Mundham & District Gala & Flower show and stop the endless circle of inevitable violence?’

Crowley and Aziraphale sat in the hallway for about 10 minutes, each looking at the wall. Crowley had a sudden gasp of inspiration.

‘Beans!’ He yelled. He jumped onto his feet and darted towards the back door. Aziraphale made it to the patio just in time to see Crowley dive headfirst over the bullet-hole ridden garden fence. He reappeared a minute later with an armful of stunningly large pods and the determined and gleeful expression of someone who was definitely going to win their local flower show the very next day.


	5. Bean a long time comin’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the day of the Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show arrives. Can Crowley and Aziraphale save their South Downs village from Asparrageddon?

_ 6 hours until Asparageddon _

The Bentley swerved and skidded into place the North Mundham Playing Fields. Mr Walt hurried over with a clipboard.

‘Ah! The 1933 Bentley! In time for registration, what a treat!’ He said as an angel and demon burst out the car holding a closed wicker basket.

‘It’s a 1926, read a bloody book!’ Crowley said as he and Aziraphale began to hurry to the competition tent.

‘You’ve left your lights on!’ Damien called after him. Crowley snapped his fingers and the Bentley’s lights clicked off. ‘Well that’s clever’ Damien said to himself.

‘Why did you even have them on, Crowley, it’s day-time? Were you just showing off?’ Aziraphale asked as they entered the marquee. Crowley did not reply.

Hell's influence on the villagers of North Mundham was more than apparent. Every one, as they busied away with arranging their flowers, fruits, veg, artworks and homemade condiments, had dark rings around their eyes. It seemed that everyone had checked in their polite subtlety on entrance and were snapping their heads between their own entries and other people’s like they were watching Wimbledon. Mrs Carter had sensibly placed herself on the other side of the room to Mr Garrison, but all around old arguments seemed to be coming out at every possible opportunity. Insinuations that Mr Ping’s carrots hadn’t grown because the Rogers family had put up a massive fence that had blocked the view and the sunshine. Allegations that Mrs Pierce had been putting strange things in her compost and attracting pests to Mr Mucklow’s radishes. Mr Mucklow had most definitely not planted any radishes in the first place - according to Dr Clarke - so where he got them was also very dubious. 

Mrs Savage was on a high and there was no bringing her down. She was hardly a tactful woman to begin with, but the information she had collected about her fellow villagers in recent months gave her an amazing power to put people down like she’d never had before. Even sweeter was the fact that  _ she _ had not been in the wrong this whole time, or at least nothing she may have done was provable anyway, and she was loving it. 

‘Nice leeks Mrs Carter, better a leek here than on a  _ boat  _ eh?’ Mrs Carter shot a dirty look as Doris passed ‘Ah Mr Garrison, is that sea kale? How fitting! Mr Mucklow, fancy seeing you here. A word to the wise - you’ve left the packet for those radishes on the floor there. Tesco’s finest, I say, moving up in the world aren’t we!’ She sauntered through the marquee dredging up any anger and contempt that was attempting to settle itself. She paused for a moment at Mr Walt’s exhibit. Damien wasn’t there, he was outside helping with parking like every year. The category he had chosen was ‘oddest looking vegetable’. A dangerous category indeed, for it required the judges to have a sense of humour - which they never did. But Reverend Acres was on the committee this year, and she may well find Damien’s malformed gourd hilarious enough to win the cup. Mrs Savage put the thought out of her mind, and went back to her table to polish her ginormous pumpkin once more. 

A basket plopped down onto the table next to her. She looked up to see the last two faces she had expected to.

‘Hullo Doris!’ Grinned an angel ‘How fun, it looks like we get to be neighbours here as well!’

‘Budge up’ said a demon was he began carefully unloading the contents of his wicker basket onto a cushion.

One by one, a small crowd gathered in hushed awe.

‘Mr Crowley,’ said Mr Garrison ‘Those beans are enormous - I’m afraid you must have left them on the vine too long. They’ll be tough and haggard at that size.’

Crowley turned to him with eyebrows raised. He arranged four of the largest, most beautiful, most perfect pods on the silk cushion. He took a fifth and prised it open carefully. 

The inside was fresh, crisp and young, without even a hint of going to seed. 

Mr Garrison took off his hat and Mrs Rogers made the sign of the cross on her head, chest and shoulders. Crowley took a crunchy bite of a spare bean he had in the basket and turned to go.

‘Savage’ he nodded his neighbour.

_ ‘Demon’ _ she hissed back as he sauntered past the other tables towards the door, the empty basket hanging nonchalantly from the crook of his arm. The angel lagged behind him waving as he went.

‘See you all soon! Keep up the good work. I say, are they “Red Bartlett” pears, Dr Clarke? They look  _ delicious _ . Oh yes, don’t tug me, Crowley, I’m  _ coming’  _

*******

  
  


‘I know you're worried, but I’ve told you once I’ll tell you again, angel - you  _ can’t  _ go back in after a cool exit. It ruins it!’

‘Ah well then, nothing left but to enjoy the fete.’ The angel sighed then smiled ‘Crowley, I have a surprise for you!’

‘Oh no, what.’ Said a suddenly worried Crowley as he was lead by the sleeve to a stall on the outside of the nearest marquee. There sat three very unenthusiastic teens from the youth group, each sitting on a small plastic chair and holding a sack in their laps. The one on the end held a fake lever made of taped together toilet paper tubes.

‘I present to you,’ the angel announced ‘the Human Fruit Machine!’

Crowley did not say anything, but looked with utter bewilderment at the glum faces of the local youths. Aziraphale dropped a 50p into their tin and pulled down the loo-roll-lever. 

‘Just like we practiced’ he whispered to the trio. They started half heartedly tumbling their hands and tunelessly murmuring a game show theme.

Something caught Crowley's eye over their heads. Across the other side of the marquee, looking the other way, Crowley recognised a silhouette of someone he did not want to see.

‘ _ Bummblumdumdumbumbledoodoo’ _

Each of the teens stuck their hand into the sack and pulled out a different fruit.

‘Oh! Rotten luck! Crowley, you have a pull on the lever - go on. If you get three of the same you win a lolly. Crowley?’ But he was not there. 

******

  
  


Hastur, Duke of Hell, watched the crowds with glee from behind a stall selling tattered herbs and dying pansies. Not long now until the event and it was going to be  _ so much fun.  _

‘Enjoying a light bit of shopping are we  _ Hastur? _ ’ Came a familiar voice behind him. Hastur screamed and whipped around. He frantically looked the traitor Crowley up and down for any sign of concealed holy water, and when he was convinced there probably wasn’t any, he managed a menacing smile.

‘Come to see the show have we  _ Crowley?’  _

‘Are you not going to deny my shopping comment, _Hastur?’_ Crowley looked at the stall they were at ‘I don’t think any of these would survive in head office. Terrible light down there.’

‘Haha that is very funny aren’t you clever Mr I-stopped-armageddon-and-snogged-an-angel-probably. Well you’ll be happy to know that thanks to your “ _ forward thinking” _ , we’ve decided to take a leaf out of your book!’

‘You snogged an angel?’

‘NO!‘ Hastur looked scandalised ‘ _ Euurgh disgusting! _ No I mean thanks to  _ you  _ we’ve been thinking  _ bigger _ . Not chasing round tempting one or two people for our master - we’re trying... bigger things...’

‘Was it Micheal?’ 

‘No it wasn’t! I didn’t!’

‘I know you have a thing for Sandalphon’

‘I do not! That is!!! Ssso sssilly!’ A shaking and spitting Hastur attempted to breathe deeply to calm himself. ‘You won't be laughing when Asparageddon happens, traitor! I will be the one laughing. I think I will start right now in fact! Hahahahahahaha!’ The demon, duke of hell, began maniacally laughing as he sunk slowly into the ground.

‘For heaven's sake.’ Said Crowley ‘What the hell is  _ Asparageddon’ _

*******

Aziraphale, shortly after having lost Crowley and beginning the hunt to look for him, was distracted first by a used book sale, and then a cake stall. He was admiring a particularly delicious looking coffee and walnut cake when he recognised some ex-work colleagues he certainly did not want to see.

Cowardness, in this instance, was  _ not  _ an option. The last time he had seen them, or at least - the last time  _ they  _ had seen  _ him, _ Aziraphale had been an unknown entity that could survive the very fire of hell. For this reason, the other angels had left him alone, until now. There was nothing for it but to start on the offensive. Aziraphale puffed up his chest, imagined he was as confident as Crowley, and attempted to ‘slink’ towards Uriel and Sandalphon. Unfortunately for the angel, it had been a whole year since he had pretended to be Crowley - and completely forgotten how to do it.

‘Well  _ hullo,  _ what a pleasant surprise to see  _ you  _ here’ said the angel Aziraphale. He was attempting to be threatening but to anyone else it just came off as genuine politeness. That aside, it  _ did _ have the desired effect. Uriel jumped and whipped around and Sandalphon spilt a lot of his popcorn on the floor. They both stepped back out of harm’s way. 

‘Now,’ said Aziraphale, wishing he’d witnessed exactly what Crowley had done in heaven to make his former work colleagues so scared of him, ‘would you like to kindly tell me what on earth would bring you both to a  _ village fete _ ?’

They looked at each other.

‘We  _ heard’  _ the angel Uriel leered and stuck out her chin ‘that today was the day the ineffable traitors were finally going to be done in, along with the destruction of the beloved village they’ve harboured themselves in’

‘And we came to watch.’ Sandelphon brandished his popcorn and fizzy drink with a shiny grin. ‘Hnnhnnnhnnhnn’ he giggled.

Aziraphale tried not to look shaken. He kept thinking ‘what would Crowley do, act like Crowley, what would he do’.

He wiggled his hips. He felt ridiculous. He decided not to do what Crowley would do anymore. He decided to do what Aziraphale would do. He, surprisingly, felt himself becoming angry. ‘ _ The destruction of the village!?  _ You are….. bad!’ he sputtered the last word ‘Just  _ bad! Evil!  _ How can you possibly rejoice in the misery of others and justify it as  _ righteous? _ ’

‘We are  _ angels, _ everything we do is righteous.’ Uriel preached, although she was clearly taken aback.  _ ‘You _ have been blinded from being on earth so long - you’ve been  _ corrupted _ by it, and by that very snake that  _ ruined _ the earth in the first place.’ She sneered ‘You wouldn’t know  _ righteousness  _ if it hit you in the  _ face’ _

At this, Aziraphale hit Uriel in the face.

Well… at least he meant to... but as he pulled back his fist he was tackled hard from the side and with a  _ whomp  _ landed in a heap next to the jam and preserves table. He scrambled and saw that the thing that hit him was in fact Crowley. Uriel looked down at that black and white pile on the floor in disgust, and a little bit of fear. Sandalphon began to giggle again, nibbling what was left of his popcorn. They turned and vanished while the villagers began to file into the marquee to see the commotion.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale in confusion and shock. 

‘You tried to punch an angel!’ he hissed. His face broke into wonder and admiration ‘ _ What the hell were you thinking?’ _

Aziraphale grunted and sat upright.

‘They  _ said’  _ the angel raised his eyebrows and brushed off his coat ‘that  _ you  _ ruined the earth.’ he stood up, his bow tie completely skewiff. ‘When, as we both know, that was actually, well, me.’

Crowley was speechless. Aziraphale had never in 6000 years taken credit for ruining much at all - let alone the  _ earth.  _ But what’s more, the whole ruining the earth in the Garden of Eden thing… well… in the eyes of heaven and hell, that had always been Crowley. 

‘You talking about giving your sword away? You were… just…’ Crowley waved his hands about ‘...doing what you thought… was right… though.’

‘So does  _ everyone _ Crowley!’ The angel urged him with a pained expression ‘What the right thing is for them at the time, or for someone else. I’ve spent so long just trying to be perfect that I let you take the blame for it this whole time. It’s me! I should be… d- _ damned.’ _

‘Oh c’mon. I mean, I really wanted the blame - let’s be honest. Saved us a lot of trouble, me taking the blame.’

‘I nearly punched an angel Crowley. What was I thinking, I’ve never punched  _ anything’  _

‘I could tell, you probably would have broken your thumb’ Crowley shot warning looks at the villagers who were lurking around to see if there would be any more drama. They started to go back about their business. ‘You’re not going to be  _ damned,  _ angel. Not  _ you.  _ It’s not that bad being damned though, you know. You get quite a good village, and sea, and house, and garden, and all that stuff - eh?’ Crowley dusted off Aziraphale’s jacket and straightened his bowtie. ‘Also, there’s a big difference between trying to be good and trying to be  _ perfect. _ Not admitting your mistakes - that’s trying to be perfect. Punching an evil angel in the face, well, I still don’t know about good but it’s pretty cool.’ He chuckled. 

In his whole life the angel had never been called ‘cool’, let alone by  _ Crowley.  _ He was completely chuffed and his guilt almost entirely forgotten, until he remembered why Uriel and Sandalphon had apparently shown up in the first place.

‘Oh Crowley,’ He looked at the demon in desperation ‘I think something bad is happening and it’s possibly bigger than a large scale community argument.’

‘Yeah, Asparrageddon.’

‘Aspara- _ pardon?’ _

‘Not a clue, apart from the stupid  _ neave’s cup _ ,  _ dewalt _ and  _ hag's cucurbita.' _

At that, a voice on a megaphone rang from outside the tent, announcing that it was time for the winners of the Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show to be revealed. 

  
  


*****

‘Helen, have you seen Mike? I’m just about to announce the winners?’

‘I think I saw him by the hog roast.’

‘Can someone get Damien? He’s still out parking cars.’

‘Vicar, we just have to start, it’s getting late.’

‘Oh can’t we just wait a moment -‘

‘Here is the mic, hold it here. No,  _ here, _ up to your mouth.’

‘Oh ok, one two one two. It’s on, huzzah! Hello everyone, and welcome to the annual Mundham & District Gala & Flower Show. It is my pleasure to announce the winners. But first, what an amazing turnout this year!’ Reverend Acres said into the microphone. She was visibly sweating at the sheer determination to appease the whole crowd of tense villagers. ‘By far some of the most marvellous paintings, flowers, condiments and vegetables… well mostly vegetables, you all brought so much veg, haha!’ No one laughed. ‘...that I’ve… ever seen. Anyway…’

The vicar read out and congratulated the winners of all the other categories first. If anyone did care, they didn’t act like it. What the people  _ really _ wanted to know was who it was that had won division B, the Mark Neave cup.

Azirapahale tensed and Crowley licked his lips in nervous anticipation as the vicar finally got to the winner of the class B division. 

‘Ah yes, and now onto the veg.’ The room shifted into a torturous state of agitation. ‘So I just wanted to say, before I announce this, how wonderfully you have all done. You have put your heart and soul into this and you are  _ all winners.  _ After all we know it’s not about the winning of prizes, or even eating vegetables, but it’s about coming together and celebrating the fact that by God’s provision we can  _ grow wonderful food together and-’ _

‘Get on with it!’

_ ‘Crowley!’  _ The angel hissed.

‘’Ere 'ere!’ Came a voice from the back.

‘Don’t know what  _ you’re  _ hurrying her for Mucklow, it’s not like you stand a chance with  _ Tesco radishes’  _ The hag yelled.

‘I’ll show you what for, Doris!’

‘Crowley!! You’ve started it! This is it!’

‘Whoops’

‘Come at me, you mugwump!’

‘Mr Mucklow, a word if you please’ Doctor Clarke stepped forward and took Mr Mucklow by the arm and led him to the corner of the marquee.

‘Now remember our exercises, focus on breathing in and out. Just the breathing now.’

In no time Mr Mucklow had calmed down, but the room began murmuring about whether Mr Mucklow and Mrs Savage would have actually fought if Dr Clarke wasn’t there. 

‘Maybe that was it?’ Aziraphale whispered over the din of the villagers ‘our mere presence in this society has prevented community catastrophe. You know, it was I who suggested Mr Mucklow solicit the services of Dr Clarke - who specialises in anger management therapy’

‘There’s no way that was it! What about the pumpkin! What about D. Walt!’

Mr Damien Walt thought he over heard his name and looked over to the couple from East Gate Cottage. He gave a little wave and a wink, tapped his nose and pointed at Crowley. The demon was shaken to his core, what did this mean?

‘The winner’ the vicar sighed ‘of this years Mark Neave Cup is-‘

‘NOBODY!’ Came a scream from the marquee entrance. It was Mike, the vicar’s son.

‘I. HATE. VEGETABLES!!!’ He yelled as he started up his chainsaw.


	6. Asparageddon’t stop me now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT’S ASPARAGEDDON TIME, CHOP CHOP!

_ Asparrageddon _

DeWalt have been a leading supplier of power tools since their founding in Maryland, USA, in 1924. Their 18v XR 30cm Cordless Chainsaw, bright yellow and black with DeWALT in large letters up the side, is often the top of the list for good value battery powered chainsaws due to it’s enhanced battery life, excellent lumbering ability and 3 year warranty.

‘Ahh, now see  _ this _ is more what I reckon hell might do; vicar’s boy with a chainsaw - I should have seen it coming.’ the demon snapped his fingers in frustration.

‘ _ Dewalt,  _ oh perhaps I should have  _ googled _ it after all.’

‘You didn’t  _ google it?!’ _ ’

‘Well it’s just that  _ books  _ are my preferred method of research.’

‘But you spent all your time reading the Beano instead of looking things up!’

‘Argh, I do wish I hadn’t told you about that.’

‘MIKE!!’ The vicar shouted ‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!’

The boy looked up at his mother.

‘Asparageddon,  _ baby!’  _ he yelled over the motor of the saw, before smashing it into the nearest aubergine laden table with a terrible grinding noise. 

In a cacophony of shouting, metallic shrieking, splotching, and what sounded like angels and demons laughing, the boy systematically destroyed one entry after another. He smashed through Mrs Carter’s leeks, ground through Mr Walt’s misshapen squash, slaughtered Dr Clarke’s pears and sent all of Mr Mucklow’s shop-bought radishes flying through the air.

‘He’s just aiming for the vegetables!’ Crowley yelled as some severed sea kale flew by his right ear. 

The villagers were in crisis. The vicar was in a frozen state of disbelief, while contestants ran around aimlessly, shouting orders for someone to ‘do  _ something!’ _ , and gently weeping by the mushy forms of their former vegetables. However, no one knew  _ what  _ to do, so the boy continued his rampage. By this point, there were only two entrants left un-pulverised.

‘Pumpkin!’ Aziraphale yelled.

‘Yes dear!’ Shouted Crowley as they both raced towards the hag’s cucurbita. The chainsaw-wielding hell-crazed boy heard the cry and raced towards it too. Crowley stuck his arms out and hugged the gourd to his chest, as the momentum sent him, the pumpkin and Aziraphale crashing into the table and into a heap on the floor. The chainsaw missed him by inches and instead lodged itself into the table of Crowley’s runner beans display. The beautiful beans were skewered and their stringy flesh was flung through the air. Mike tried to yank the tool free but it had gotten stuck. Before he could give it a good wiggle and release it, something caught his wrist in a steely grip.

It was Helen.

The chainsaw ground to a halt. 

Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t get a chance to see the face that Helen Acres was wearing as she took her son's arm and led him out of the marquee. Whatever it was like, it scared the hell out of Mike. Quite literally. Just like that, the hellish influence on the child’s mind was overcome. He was once again a normal 10 year old boy - who was in an imperial butt-tonne of trouble.

‘Angel! Wings!’ Crowley hissed.

‘You too!’ Said Aziraphale. They had accidentally sprouted in reaction to the near miss, and so they both hurriedly folded them away.

‘You think anyone saw?’ The villagers who were left in the tent were focused mainly on their destroyed vegetables.

‘What  _ are  _ you?’ Came a voice from behind them.

Mrs Savage blinked several times. She never went in for any nonsense about doubting her own senses, but could she  _ truly _ now believe her eyes when she saw her neighbours, with giant feathered wings, save her pumpkin from certain doom?

_ ‘Guardian angels’  _ she whispered in awe.

‘Errmmm, not really.’ Crowley shrugged ‘But, uh, sort of, I guess.’

Aziraphale gave him a most pleased sidelong smile.

  
  


********

It was Mrs Savage, after all, who got to take home Neave’s Cup - but it was her neighbours who took home the only surviving vegetable of the competition. That, and also a certificate for the best kept car pre-1950 (which explained Mr Walt’s nose tapping). 

‘How lovely of Mrs Savage to share in her victory! I am going to make a  _ pumpkin pie, _ ’ declared the angel that evening, with determination and a hint of worry, 'in celebration of our second thwarting of heaven and hell's plans within the space of two years.' 

‘Sounds wonderful.’ drawled Crowley as he flicked through the angel’s, now extensive, collection of Beano annuals. ‘You know, angel, I’ve been thinking - about Asparageddon.’

‘That you still aren’t sure what hell’s plan really was in the first place? Yes me too. Did they really just want to destroy vegetables? Perhaps get the poor Acres family in trouble by upsetting Mrs Savage to such an extent? Undermine the spiritual leadership of the vicar? But there are better ways to do it, you should hear her modern theories on Genesis. But it was all fine for the Acres family in the end - the police enquiry was so light on the boy. They found it very funny I think…’ The angel mashed some pastry into a bowl with a meat tenderiser and a cheese grater.

‘Yeah. I mean, all I was thinking was that they should have called it Arma _ gourd _ on - because the pumpkin.’

‘Oh the pumpkin, what was the clue about the pumpkin even really  _ about  _ in the end?’ Sighing, he scraped the pastry into a pizza tray and covered it in chickpeas and bath salts.

‘Angel, what are you doing?’

‘It’s called “baking it blind”, according to Mrs Delia Smith.’

‘But why are you using pepper spray?’

‘Ah yes,’ said the angel as he put down the spray can and looked at his creation ‘I can’t cook.’

‘You  _ what?’  _ Crowley chucked the Beano annual on the table ‘But you  _ love _ food how do you not know how to  _ cook?’ _

There came a hurried knock at the door.

‘We are continuing this conversation, you are not getting away with this.’ Said Crowley as he got up to get it.

‘I’ll prepare the pumpkin shall I?’ Aziraphale shouted to him through the corridor.

‘Fine! Use a  _ knife,  _ angel, not a garlic press.’

Crowley opened the door a crack, before being overcome by a surreal sense of déjà vu.

It was the renegade demon.

‘Mr Crowley!’ The demon whooped, ‘Oh you did it! You worked it out!’

The demon was wearing a smoking jacket of a suspiciously similar material to Crowley’s quilted night robe - but Crowley decided not to comment on it.

‘Worked out  _ what _ .’

‘The  _ plan!’  _ The demon laughed ‘Which is great because when I gave you that slip of paper I had  _ no idea  _ what it meant. So I went back to try and find out more, then I found out about the real plan - and what it meant for you and your village, so I left you the gourd omens, the clues. And you  _ got them!  _ I was worried you’d be confused why there was all that powder on the vegetables in your garden, but you  _ understood.’  _ The demon beamed in admiration.

‘You left… the mildew…’

‘Yep! I would have passed a note like last time but they were getting suspicious that I had already let you know about Asparageddon - which by the way  _ I  _ think they should have called Armagourdon - but then Lord Hastur met you and you pretended you didn’t know about it, (thank you by the way), and now I’m off the hook so that’s why I’m here now! I know we’re not supposed to be on the same side, but I am glad that you prevented asparragourdon. I just think that… you’re… um… cool… so.’

‘ _ You put powdery mildew on my vegetables! _ ’ Crowley was enraged.

‘Ah! I’m so sorry Mr Crowley!’ Panicked the demon and he held his hands in front of his face ‘Please, it was the only way I could think of to warn you about all the anthrax in your neighbor’s competition entry!’

Crowley did not reply. When the demon peeped out between his fingers, he saw that Crowley was motionless and that his eyebrows had shot up so far they were nearly at his hairline.

Anthrax, Crowley’s brain cell thought to itself, ahh that’s actually a good way to kill a lot of people. Nasty stuff, that. Good job it’s all safe still inside that cucurbita.

Crowley threw himself away from the door, whipped through the corridor, and skidded into the kitchen. Aziraphale stood with a knife in one hand, Delia Smith’s book in the other and a determined expression on his face.

‘ANGEL, NOOOOOO!!!!’ He shouted as Aziraphale haphazardly plunged a knife into the pumpkin.

  
  


The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to everyone who’s been reading all along the way and leaving lovely comments. I love you, you kept me going. 
> 
> I’m sorry about all the weird bits. Which is to say... most of it.
> 
> Illustrations can all be found on my tumblr: /foodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com or just search #gourd omens


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